


Marketing

by winterfold



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Ad Read Fic, M/M, rampant capitalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:13:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfold/pseuds/winterfold
Summary: A better way to—





	1. Shari's Berries (ot3)

**Author's Note:**

> archiving some fic from tumblr that were inspired by ad reads, slightly cleaned up. everything is backdated to the original posting. pairings indicated in chapter titles.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > FAVS: By the way, I cannot believe we're doing this ad for the first time, and we don't have wine connoisseur Tommy Vietor doing this ad.  
> LOVETT: Yeah, human boat shoe, wine drinker, Tommy Vietor.  
> FAVS: No one knows wines like Tommy Vietor.  
> LOVETT: Yeah, he likes most of, he likes his WINC bottles of wine on a, on a— schooner.
> 
> — Pod Save America, 2017/05/02

The thing is, WINC sent them a selection of wine, and it would be irresponsible not to sample them before doing the ad; at least, that's what Lovett had said. So they have five different bottles of wine scattered across the table, with a little explanatory card propped against every single one; they’ve got a gallon of water (”To cleanse the palate,” Tommy says; “Do you ever hear yourself,” says Lovett); and to top it off they’ve got Shari’s berries because those things are fucking addictive, and you gotta eat something with the wine.

Tommy starts with wine #1—”Not bad,” he declares; Jon, who is reading the card, says, “Oh, come on, this is from the  _sun-drenched valleys of northern California_ , it’s practically homegrown”—and drinks about half a mouthful in total because getting drunk is not the wine taster’s game.

“Tommy, you’re making me cry,” Lovett says, pouring a generous glass for each of them. “We’re not like,  _kissing_  the wine, this is not a fucking dinner date, we are here for one thing and one thing only.” Then he picks up a chocolate-covered strawberry and bites into it with his teeth and amends, “Okay, maybe two things.”

(This will not be the only time tonight when Tommy stares a little too long at Lovett’s mouth.)

Wine #2 does not pass muster—”A little more sugar and you could sell this in the soda aisle,” Tommy says disgustedly; “I like a man with strong opinions,” Lovett says, leaning into Jon's shoulder as they both start laughing—but wine #3 and wine #4 are both excellent, so that gets them through several more rounds.

(They are also both French. Lovett finds this hilarious. “How did we ever find this guy,” he asks Jon, coming around to put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Look at him. He’s got expensive taste, he wears button-down shirts _voluntarily_ , he not only knows how to but actually does shine his shoes–Tommy, I should hate you,” Lovett says, and steals the rest of Tommy’s wine out of his unprotesting hands.

“We should,” Jon agrees, “but just there’s something about him.”)

By the time wine #5 comes around they’re all fairly drunk, which is good, but nearly out of Shari’s berries, which is bad. In fact there is exactly one chocolate-covered strawberry left, and Tommy and Lovett are locked in a battle of wills.

“I feel like I should get this,” Lovett says. “I don’t have any reason for it, I just feel strongly that I should.”

“Technically these were all mine,” Tommy points out. “You and Favs ate your samples before I even landed at LAX.”

“Tommy, we’re _partners,_ ” Lovett says, mock-wounded, a hand on his chest. “Here we are, having founded Crooked Media together; what’s mine is yours, and more importantly vice versa.”

Jon is cracking up at both of them. “Guys,” he says, “it’s a pretty big strawberry, just split it.”

“Wow, Jon, that’s really wise,” Lovett says, “one might even say, fit for a king, that’s so amazing,” picking up the strawberry, and Tommy is expecting one of two things:

  * Lovett crams the entire thing into his mouth
  * Lovett pulls it apart into two and passes one half over to Tommy



What actually happens is neither: Lovett reaches out and presses the point of the strawberry against Tommy’s lips.

Tommy’s mouth parts open automatically, and then he’s frozen, because he doesn’t know what’s happening. He just knows that Lovett’s looking at him, his eyes gleaming and his mouth stained wine-dark, and Tommy can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except look back, the taste of chocolate on his tongue.

“You can’t take the whole thing,” Lovett says, and leans forward, taking the other half of the strawberry into his mouth, Jesus, his hair brushing against Tommy’s forehead, nose bumping softly against Tommy’s. Their mouths meet for the briefest moment before Lovett’s teeth close and he’s falling back, a smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth capping off a faint grin.

“Lovett–” Tommy says, all the breath gone from his lungs.

“Not bad,” Lovett says, “I’d give it four stars, maybe four and a half?”

“Out of what,” says Jon, quiet.

Lovett says, “Maybe you should try it yourself.” Jon shrugs, languidly putting his empty glass down on the table, and rounds the sofa to cup Tommy’s jaw in one big hand and tip his head up.


	2. Headspace (ot3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > FAVS: Tommy, this is your – you're a fan of Headspace, have been for a long time.  
> TOMMY: It's great, it's a great service. When I, when I got in super late last night and I couldn't turn my brain off ’cause it was like 11 pm Pacific when I was trying to fall asleep, I turned on Headspace.  
> FAVS: Did you really?  
> TOMMY: Mmhmm.  
> LOVETT: I like Headspace because before Headspace you would've started outsourcing your anxiety to Jon and I with questions about the next day.
> 
> — Pod Save America, 2017/05/01

1.

It’s July 2016 and the presidential election is in full swing and Tommy does not know that an app called Headspace exists. Favs is still with the Ringer hosting _Keepin’ it 1600,_ a podcast that’s getting more and more popular. Lovett comes on now and then; Tommy’s been on a couple of times.

Tommy likes to think he knows something about elections, he’s seen the political machinery inside and out; but he still tracks the polls and he’s reading 538, then the RNC happens and that’s just– that defies conventional wisdom, doesn’t it, it’s something unexpected, it means the ugliness this election’s stirred up goes much deeper than he’d like to believe–

He texts Favs _he’s not gonna win, though_ , gets back a series of texts in quick succession:

> Definitely not  
> I mean it’d be absurd  
> Buy a Hillary mug if you’re worried

Tommy already has a Hillary mug. He texts a picture of it to Favs, and then asks Lovett the same question because yeah, he knows, he  _knows_ , but the worry stays inside his chest anyway, a tight fist of uncertainty while what-ifs play out endlessly in his head.

Lovett just texts back, _Tommy, I swear to god._

 _What,_ Tommy says.

 _There are already a million pundits jerking it to the worst case scenarios,_ Lovett says. _You’re too smart for that._

 _Right_ , Tommy types, and erases, and ultimately doesn’t send. It takes him a long time to go to sleep.

 

2.

It’s mid-November, and they’re reeling like half the country’s reeling, trying to pick themselves up for a fight that revealed itself to be so much bigger than they thought it’d be, and while they’re tossing out ideas for what they can do someone comes up with, let’s do another podcast.

Another podcast, but it won’t be with the Ringer, and it won’t be about the predictions game, about insider politics (do any of them know now, anyway, it sometimes feels like either they’ve changed, or politics itself has changed), it’ll be about what people can  _do:_  the downticket races, contacting your representatives, highlighting the small cogs of the whole unwieldy machinery so that ordinary people can take concrete steps, steps that matter.

“I’m in,” Lovett says, and Favs says, “let’s do it,” and Tommy says, after a beat, “Yeah, all right.”

So they start a media company, and Tommy discovers that it’s fucking hard to start a media company.

He’s not even doing the bulk of the work. Favs and Lovett are in LA, going through the paperwork and setting up websites, while Tommy’s reaching out to as many contacts he’s still got in the White House and Congress, trying to gauge how fucked they are. He’s staying at a hotel and sleeping badly and waking up exhausted, and when he Skypes Favs or Lovett they look like how he feels, stretched thin with exhaustion, running on caffeine and grief and anger.

“What if it falls through,” Tommy says one time, when the thought’s been running through his mind for an hour. “What if we don’t make it, or we can’t make a difference, what if none of this means anything because politics is just fundamentally– broken, what if–”

“Can you not write us off as failures before we’ve even had our first podcast,” Lovett says. “Like, I’m honestly a little insulted, it’s like you don’t believe in us or something.”

“He’s still thinking like the NSC guy,” Favs says. “Watching the fate of the whole world play out. C’mon, Tommy, we’re just people giving it our best shot. Think about that.”

“And go to  _sleep_ ,” Lovett shouts before he cuts the Skype call. “We’re not illiterate—innumerate?—we can do timezone math.”

Sleeping’s hard. Sometimes  _he’s_  not sure what timezone he’s in.

 

3.

They’ve had President Obama come on the show, they’re on the iTunes store charts and they’re thinking of doing a global policy spin-off with Tommy and his contacts. Things are going– okay. Not perfect. Tommy still gets a lurch in his stomach when he catches up on the news in the mornings, but the sharp taste of panic has receded at least, and that’s good, that’s livable.

Tommy’s been trying out a new app called Headspace.

It’s– well, he feels a little weird about it, a grown man who needs someone to talk him to sleep, but at least he gets to sleep and that’s something.

And then they go do a live show in Brooklyn.

They’re still trying to save money in the newly-created bank account for Crooked Media, which means they’ve got one hotel room with two beds.

“Look,” Lovett says, “I can like, just sleep in the bathtub.” 

“Yeah, but you’ll complain about it all night,” says Favs. “I can already tell.” 

Lovett shrugs. “Well, fine, you take one and Tommy take one, and then I’ll just see where the mood takes me.”

In the end Lovett decides to bunk with Favs, and Tommy doesn’t– that’s what Lovett wants, whatever, but he can’t quite make himself put his headphones on, open up the app, it’s just–

It’s not a secret or anything, but the lights are off and he’s thinking about Favs and Lovett across the gap between their beds, the sounds of their breathing, the sheets whispering as they shift around searching for a more comfortable position.

“Hey,” he says into the night, “so tomorrow when we talk about–”

“Oh my god,” Favs groans.

“I told you he was gonna do this,” says Lovett, and aims at Tommy, “If you do not shut up I’m gonna go over there and make you.”

“Right, right, sorry,” Tommy says, going hot all over and suddenly very glad all the lights are out, “shutting up,” and maybe Favs and Lovett falls asleep, but Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about Lovett pressing his hand over his mouth for– too long, really.

 

4.

Tommy is moving.

He’s been sticking it out in San Francisco for longer than necessary, but he wanted to make sure that this thing was gonna work. And it has, they’ve got four podcasts going and a fifth on the way, they’ve got sponsors and more live shows and actual state senators want to come on their pod now. It’s a hassle going back and forth; in the end, it’s stupid not to make the move.

So he packs up the small things into boxes, wraps bubble wrap around the big stuff; he sends the things too big for him down separately and crams everything else into a U-Haul and finally,  _finally_  moves to LA.

After that it’s another several hours of shuffling everything he owns into his new place. Then he sits back in his living room with a thousand boxes stacked precariously and taped-up furniture frowning all around him. It is eleven pm and his bed’s in five different pieces and he is too fucking tired.

He ends up knocking at Favs’ door at eleven thirty, and when Favs blinks at him he says, a little pathetically, “I don’t have a bed.”

“What, like they lost it?”

“No, it’s in–” Tommy waves his hand, “parts, I gotta assemble it, dude, moving  _sucks._ ”

“Oh,” Favs says, “yeah, I know,” and steps back to let him in.

Tommy’s too tired to even need Headspace. He sleeps for about eleven hours on Favs’ sofa and slowly wakes up to Lovett and Favs talking.

“–is the sponsor that does the mattresses,” Lovett is saying, “you know, the one for couples who are unable to compromise, but technology can save them–”

“Oh, yeah, it’s– Helix something, I think, the custom ones–”

“Yeah, that’s it. we should get Tommy one of those, who knows, maybe he’ll sleep better.”

“I have a mattress,” Tommy mumbles, “I just haven’t unpacked it.”

“So, Tommy,” Lovett says with a complete lack of shame. “Let’s say, hypothetically, you  _were_  to get a Helix mattress, what kind of firmness would you like?”

“I have no idea,” Tommy says honestly, because mattress quality has never been the thing that’s kept him from sleeping. “Also, isn’t the idea behind those people that you’re buying a mattress for two?”

“I like soft beds,” Lovett says immediately, and Favs says, “Naw, gotta be firm.”

“Sounds like I should get one soft and one firm side,” Tommy says, laughing.

“Yeah,” Lovett says. “Maybe you should.”

 

(0.)

“All right, come on, Tommy, I wanna know about the wonders of this Headspace.”

“It’s not magic,” Tommy says, “it’s just guided relaxation and stuff.”

“If it gets Lovett to relax,” Favs says, “it  _will_  be magic.”

“You guys are both assholes,” Tommy says. Favs is on the firm side of the bed and Lovett is on the soft side. He is in the middle. Lovett’s elbow’s digging into his ribs and he’s pretty sure it’s on purpose.

“You say this like this is news to you,” Lovett says, and yanks the phone out of Tommy’s hands so he can press  _play_  himself.

They’re about two minutes in when Lovett says, “This is not a good story.”

“Redundant word usage,” Favs agrees. “Repetitive sentence structure.”

“Uninteresting plot–”

Tommy is laughing. “It is literally supposed to be boring,” he points out. “It is meant to put people to  _sleep_.”

“I still have  _standards_ ,” Lovett says, “I’m not gonna– in fact I refuse to let you fall asleep to these subpar stories, this is a matter of principle.”

“So what am I gonna do,” Tommy says, who’s pretty sure he knows where this is going.

“Well,” Lovett says, exchanging a look with Favs over Tommy’s shoulder. “I feel confident that between the two of us we can somehow manage to tire you out.”


	3. Tommy John (jonjon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > FAVS: Tommy John makes you happy.  
> LOVETT: It does. And the, um—  
> FAVS: You’ll never forget how good it tastes and feels— [dissolving into laughter]  
> LOVETT [laughing]: Okay, all right, cool it.
> 
> — Pod Save America, 2017/05/11

They’re finished recording for the day, but they’re still in the studio. Jon’s in his chair, pushed back away from the table, with one hand on his thigh and the other curled around his armrest. Lovett is in front of him, on his knees, undoing Jon’s fly.

“We should not be doing this,” Jon says under his breath, but his eyes are fixed on Lovett’s hand on the zip.

“Listen,” Lovett says. “What’s the point of starting your own media company if you can’t blow your boss whenever you want?” He’s drawing the zipper down slowly; it sounds like static, the only other sound in the studio besides Jon’s breathing.

“ _Am_  I your boss?” The question comes out shaky, but Lovett’s got one hand inside Jon’s pants now, the edge of his hand brushing bare skin where Jon’s underwear stops, so it’s a miracle it comes out coherent at all. “You’d think you’d listen to me a lot more, in that case.”

“Boss, employee, whatever.” Lovett says, and moves his hand to palm at Jon’s dick. “Goes both ways, we’re very liberal here at Crooked Media.”

Jon starts to laugh, and then all the air in his lungs go out when Lovett leans forward to press his mouth, half-open, to the fabric over his crotch.

“You, uh, forgetting something there?” he says when he can breathe again. He can feel the warmth of Lovett’s exhales through the underwear, the cloth going slowly damp. When he shifts his hips up, Lovett meets him, his tongue pressed hot and flat against the line of his dick for a moment, before he sits back on his heels.

“What are you, criticizing my technique?” Lovett’s trying to sound stern, though it’s undercut by the way he’s shaking with swallowed laughter. “You know what, you’ve got two options, insult the person trying to blow you or sit back and stay still, and only one of those ends the way you want.”

There’s a shiver that goes through Jon at the words  _sit back and stay still_ , and Lovett doesn’t miss it. “Yeah,” he says, satisfied, “there we go.” His mouth comes back; his hands come up to grip at Jon’s hips, digging a little under the waistband of his underwear. Holding him down.

Jon tips his head back as every bit of awareness in his body relocates to the vicinity of his dick.

The front of his underwear is going from  _damp_  to  _wet_ , soaked in Lovett’s spit. It clings to parts of his skin, slowly peeling away as Lovett directs his attention elsewhere, and Jon’s pretty sure he’s going crazy. His hands are aching from how hard he’s clutching at his chair; he can feel one of Lovett’s thumbs rubbing slowly against his hipbone.

“In some countries,” he says, and blinks at how hoarse he sounds, “I think this is considered torture.”

Lovett’s flushed when he looks up, his mouth very red. “Oh, no,” he says, mock-contrite. “Maybe I should stop.”

"Do not fucking dare.” Jon shifts his hips again, biting back a noise at the way his underwear slides over his dick. “Lovett, I swear to god, I will–”

“You’ll–” Lovett echoes, a hot look in his eyes. “Come on, Jon. What do you want, ask for it.”

The muscles of Jon’s stomach are quivering with the effort of staying still. “Will you–” he says, grasping for the right words, “fucking– please, will you come over here and suck my dick, Jesus,” and that’s it, that’s it because Lovett’s reaching for him, tugging his dick out from the confines of his underwear and licking at the head before he swallows him down, and Jon says, “Christ,” and, “I’m–” and comes in Lovett’s mouth, eyes shut.

When he opens his eyes again, Lovett’s staring up at him with his head leaning against Jon’s knee. There’s still a smear of something shiny at the corner of his mouth.

"God,” he says, pressing a hand into Lovett’s hair. "You are a fucking menace.”

“Hey,” Lovett says with lazy satisfaction. “It’s not my fault that you look so good when you beg.”


	4. Indochino (tommyjon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > FAVS: We love Indochino here. Everyone's got their suit—  
> TOMMY: I gotta pick up my suit some time this week.  
> LOVETT [simultaneously]: I gotta pick up my suit. Gotta go make sure it's good. It's been sitting there.  
> FAVS: Lovett, I want you to know that I tried the suit on in front of Emily —  
> LOVETT: Uh-huh.  
> FAVS: And she said it’s okay. ****  
> LOVETT: Okay, good.  
>  TOMMY: Whew.  
> FAVS: They figured it out, one try— my suit’s great.  
> LOVETT: Tommy and I gotta go back in.  
> TOMMY: Yeah, I'm psyched to be picking it up.  
> 
> 
> — Pod Save America, 2017/05/22

So Tommy and Lovett hook up in New Orleans, which is– well, pretty great, actually, except then they fly back home and Lovett seems to forget the whole thing entirely.

It’s not like Lovett’s avoiding him, which might be easier because that would at least  _be_  something. It’s like nothing’s happened at all. Lovett looks at him the same, makes the same jokes, puts a hand on Tommy’s arm sometimes when he’s said something funny and takes it away while the awareness is still sparking down Tommy’s skin. Tommy’s almost wondering if he dreamed the whole thing up, except there’s the bite mark on his hip that held its shape all the way until they landed at LAX.

Tommy is well into his thirties now; he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be able to talk to Lovett about this like a goddamn adult, but he keeps missing his chances.

So when Lovett announces he’s finally going to go pick up his suit for Favs’ wedding from Indochino, Tommy says, “Hey, lemme come with you,” for a couple of reasons.

He really does need to pick up his suit, though.

“Yeah, okay,” Lovett shrugs, and then, unexpectedly, shoots him a sly grin. “Might as well have something nice to look at.”

–––

Lovett insists on checking his suit first, and comes out of the dressing room tugging uneasily at the knot of his tie. “See, I don’t know if this really works,” he says. “I mean, okay, at least everything’s the right length for like, my torso, I guess, but I’m just really not a suit person, right? There’s this kind of classic profile, you know–” Lovett’s hands trace a pair of lines, straight up and down “–which is mostly bullshit, like some kind of holdover from several centuries ago, but still, I’m just saying–”

“You look great,” Tommy says. Clears his throat. “It looks– good.”

Tommy can’t remember a lot of occasions when Lovett actually bothered to dress up for anything. One of the correspondents’ dinners? Lovett had stumbled into work in sweats and t-shirts pretty often even when he worked in the White House, and now they’re technically their own bosses. Had he ever seen Lovett wearing a  _tie_?

Lovett’s stopped talking, but he’s still pulling nervously at his collar. Tommy wants to do it for him. Straighten his tie; smooth out the lapels over his chest. He looks down at his hands.

“Right,” Lovett says with a faint laugh. “Gonna take this off, then, it’s as good as it’s gonna get.”

He ducks back into the dressing room to change, and Tommy tries to not think in too much detail about what  _gonna take this off_  means. His thoughts keep circling back to that Saturday night, Lovett stripping out of his pants and climbing onto Tommy, pinning him down with a hand pressed flat to Tommy’s chest. 

Lovett hadn’t let Tommy blow him, but Tommy can still remember, crystal clear, his knees braced on either side of Tommy’s ribcage, the smooth curve of his thighs. Tommy had left faint fingermarks on them, when Lovett made him come, and stroked over them with an apologetic finger afterwards, when Lovett had fallen asleep.

“Your turn,” Lovett says when he reemerges with the suit zipped up in the garment bag, faintly pink across his nose. “Another item for the Tommy Vietor closet of starch and diplomacy. All in the same two shades, because  _of course_  Jon went with literally the most boring option. Honestly, he’s hopeless.”

“I did get a fun color for the lining,” Tommy tells him with a grin, before he walks into the dressing room and closes the door.

He’s shaking out his wrists when he comes back out, wondering if the cuffs are sitting right. He’s on just the wrong side of tall that proportions sometimes get weird for him. “What do you think?” he asks Lovett, squinting down the length of his legs, so it takes him a minute to realize Lovett’s not answering.

Lovett’s slouched down in the chair with a hand over his face, when Tommy looks up. “Is it bad?” he says, frowning. “This is really snug, I don’t know if–”

“Are you kidding me,” Lovett says. “‘ _Is it bad_ ’– Tommy, I swear to fucking– let me put it this way, I feel like it would be illegal for you to walk outside like this in  _several_  countries, one of which might actually be this one.”

Tommy’s always blushed easily; he can feel himself doing it now. “Oh.”

“Yeah,  _oh_ ,” Lovett says, who is apparently ready to go on for quite a while, nearly rising up from his chair with what Tommy feels like is unwarranted outrage. “I almost feel like Jon should ban you from the wedding, just so you don’t distract anyone from, you know, the actual people getting married. This is like, several beautiful bridesmaids are going to throw themselves at you,  _at the same time_ , I cannot–  _is it bad_ , you are unbelievable _-_ -”

“Right,” Tommy says loudly, because Lovett’s not gonna stop and people are starting to look at them. “Lemme just– change back, and we can get out of here.”

“ _Unbelievable_ ,” Lovett says again, and drops back into his seat.

–––

They’ve got the suits stashed in the back seat. Lovett’s driving, and Tommy feels like maybe this is a good time to talk, when neither of them has a good way to escape.

He actually means to say something else, but what he ends up asking is, “Bridesmaids?”

Lovett keeps his eyes on the road. “Isn’t that the tradition,” he says. “You know, the groomsmen and bridesmaids hooking up, occasionally in scandalous places, weddings breeding more weddings in a weird stab at reproduction, et cetera.”

“What about the groomsmen?” Tommy says, and watches Lovett shift his grip on the wheel.

“What about them?”

“Lovett,” Tommy says, because Lovett’s apparently determined to make him spell it out. “Why don’t you wanna talk about New Orleans?”

“What, you  _want_  to talk about it?”

“Well, yeah,” Tommy says. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it kinda sucks to sleep with straight guys!” Lovett throws a hand up briefly, brushing by Tommy’s ear. “It’s either they never look at you again, or they want you to talk them through some really boring sexuality crisis, like, guys, I’m not a fucking therapist, go join a support group. I don’t like it, I swore it off years ago, so I was kinda hoping maybe if we didn’t talk about it then we wouldn’t, you know,  _have to talk about it_.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” Tommy says, surprisingly stung. “As I remember it, you were pretty enthusiastic about the whole thing!”

“Yeah, well.” Lovett shrugs. “It was stupid, okay.”

Tommy looks up at the ceiling of the car. Looks at Lovett, who’s got a tight-knuckled grip on the wheel, a frown through the bridge of his nose.

He says, “I don’t want you to talk me through a sexuality crisis.”

“Okay,” Lovett says. “Good.”

“I meant it when I said you looked good in your suit.”

Lovett throws him a glance. “What are you–”

“If I’m hooking up with anyone at Favs’ wedding, there’s this groomsman I kinda like,” Tommy says. “But he’s pretty bad at taking a hint.”

“This is the worst way anyone’s propositioned me,” Lovett says loftily.

“Yeah?” Tommy says, starting to smile. “What do you want me to say?”

“Easy,” says Lovett, and tilts his head towards the back seat. “Invite me to peel you out of that fucking suit.”


	5. Harry's Razors (pre-ot3)

**Chicago, 2008**

It’s six in the morning. Tommy slides out of bed and puts on coffee with his hair still mussed from sleep, does up his shirt buttons with one hand while catching up on news with the other. The shared bathroom’s got its door closed, a line of light at the bottom; the tile on the kitchen floor is slowly sapping warmth from the soles of Tommy’s feet.

Tommy’s swearing quietly at some email in his inbox when the bathroom door cracks open and Jon leans out, faintly pink across one side of his jaw and foam still dripping across the other. He says, “Hey, what do you think about–” casually picking up a conversation that stopped at one am the night before. And it’s just quick moment slipped in between the insanity of running a presidential campaign, but Tommy thinks about it later, at odd times: the faint sheen of water over Jon’s cheek, the shifting shadows at his throat; the way Jon had wiped a thumb down the line of his jaw before he went back inside to finish, and Tommy shook the image off and swallowed down a mouthful of coffee, too hot.

 

**DC, 2011**

Tommy’s only a few months into his NSC position and it feels like he’s barely keeping his head above the water, still. He gets in late from a foreign trip, gets about three hours of sleep before he jerks awake and drags himself out of bed, trying to get ready for a job he’s not even sure he’s qualified for. He’s moving on autopilot because that’s what routines are for, to carry you through when you’re so exhausted your brain’s just a mess of white noise, and he’s in the bathroom vaguely feeling like the light’s too bright, razor halfway through a stroke when there’s a loud noise from the street and he jumps, nicks himself and drops the razor in the sink, hissing.

“What the fuck,” somebody says, muffled and disgruntled. Tommy sticks his head out into the living room to find Lovett doing the same thing, trying to frown with a mouth still soft from sleep. “This is an ungodly hour,” Lovett says, “if there’s murder going on out there I don’t want to know for another five hours, at least.” He tilts his head at Tommy, squinting. “You’re bleeding, by the way.”

Tommy slides the back of his hand across his cheek, stares at it for a moment before he shakes himself awake. It’s not much; the blood’s already gone thin and pale, mixed with the water still dripping from his face. “Yeah, I’m gonna–” he gestures into the bathroom “–gotta get ready.” 

“Sure,” Lovett says, adds, “You better not be killing yourself out here, either,” before he retreats back into his room, and for some reason that sticks with Tommy longer than it should, really.

 

**LA, 2016**

Tommy’s been living in Jon’s house for a solid week while they start the incredibly–ridiculously–involved process of getting a media company off the ground. It’s almost like being on the campaign trail again, except nearly a decade later it’s harder to ignore all his body’s complaints while he throws himself into a project. He’s gotta go back to San Francisco soon, or move down here; something to stave off the feeling of being a visiting stranger everywhere he goes.

In the meantime he ends up taking a long, _long_ shower in Jon’s guest bathroom, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes for a minute after, sitting on the edge of the tub with a towel draped loosely around his hips. He might’ve stayed like for a while, except that then somebody barges in through the bathroom door that Tommy must not have locked.

“Dude,” Tommy says to Lovett, “don’t you have a bathroom in  _your own house?_ ” 

Lovett shrugs. “I’m out of razors, Jon said he’s got some extra from ads stashed down here.” 

There are, in fact, a couple of razors in one of the drawers. Lovett makes a triumphant sound and turns the tap on.

“Again,” Tommy points out, “you have an entire house next door you can do this in.”

“But why would I go there when I can also do it here?” Lovett asks, and Tommy’s gotta admit, that is a fundamental tenet of Lovett’s lifestyle.

The open door means Tommy’s starting to get cold around the top of his shoulders and there’s a trickle of water behind his ear. “Hey,” Lovett says, “this actually isn’t bad, maybe I’ll like, use Jon’s code to get some,” and Tommy starts laughing because this is his life now, he volunteered for this.

“You okay?” Lovett says, lather on his face. “Do I need to get Jon?”

Tommy stands up, shaking his head. “No,” he says, “shove over,” and picks up the other razor out of the drawer. If this is how it’s gonna be from now—look, he might as well enjoy the process.


	6. [SKYN] (gen/pre-ot3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smooth deployment, comfortable glide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so one time elopement [said](https://throuples.tumblr.com/post/163306862346/also-one-thing-that-is-interesting-is-that-some), what if the pod got sponsored by a condom brand, and then _i_ said—
> 
> (ad copy borrowed from eps 159, 160, and 161 of _how did this get made_. not, as far as i'm aware, a real coupon code.)

LOVETT: _Lovett or Leave It_ is brought to you by… SKYN. [pause] So, guys, here’s what happened. So we got this new sponsor, and you know, normally I make Jon read the ads while I critique him–

FAVS: The _copy._

LOVETT: –him and the copy, but Jon was like, maybe you should read the ad this time, and I said, come on, you’ve done plenty of Tommy John ads, this is basically the same thing.

TOMMY: Starting to worry about the kind of underwear you’re wearing 

LOVETT: Underwear, condoms, you know, sometimes you think you’d rather go without, but they’re necessary, like if you don’t you know deep in your heart that some time in the future, you’re gonna regret it–

FAVS [strangled]: Yes, this is an ad about condoms.

LOVETT: Jon’s looking really uncomfortable, do you think maybe he could use some–

FAVS: Anyway! So Tommy’s here to read the ad.

TOMMY [to Lovett]: Or you know,  _you_  could’ve read the ad.

LOVETT: We took a vote! [to audience] We took a vote, and as Tommy’s our boss, our CEO, our–person who ultimately decides which sponsors we read for, Jon and I agreed that he should bear the responsibility–

TOMMY: I actually said sure, if you’ll read the copy, which, as we can see, is not happening–

FAVS [laughing]: Guys, no one is reading the copy, we really have to– we have to–

[muffled argument]

LOVETT [disgruntled]: SKYN. SKYN condoms are just as effective as latex condoms, but they’re made from a polyisoprene material called [pause; slowly] SKYNFEEL™ – guys, this is not, that is a  _weird_  name, you could not have come up with something more Silence of the Lambs-esque if you’d tried–

TOMMY: Jesus Christ.

FAVS [helpless laughter]: You can’t– that’s not– I  _really_ don’t want to think about that in this context–

LOVETT: They’re the ones who named it  _skin feel_ , frankly I’m a little concerned about what’s going on in their–

TOMMY [desperately]: So SKYN condoms are softer and thinner than regular latex condoms, which is [wobbly] good–

LOVETT: Oh, is it?

TOMMY: – _and_  you don’t have to worry if you’re allergic to latex, so you know, a lot of advantages to this, uh, thing–

LOVETT [thoughtful]: How do you think people find out they’re allergic to latex?

FAVS: Um–

LOVETT: Like if you’re allergic to, say, bananas, you’re not gonna find out until you actually  _eat_ a banana, at which point–

FAVS and TOMMY: [nervous laughter]

TOMMY: Is  _banana_ a– metaphor in this–?

LOVETT: Tommy, I don’t think you can be allergic to–

FAVS [high-pitched]: SKYN condoms are so great, 97% of people who’ve used them would recommend them to– friends–

LOVETT: I know I definitely recommend my preferred condom brands to all my friends–

TOMMY: –and shipping is really discreet! So go to–

LOVETT: –just casual office talk, you know, politics, new Game of Thrones, and oh, the type and texture of protection you use while engaging in sexual–

TOMMY: –buycondoms dot online – just dot online, okay – for condoms, lubricant, and more–

LOVETT [suggestive]: – _and more–_

FAVS [hysterical]: Oh my god.

TOMMY [dogged]: –and get free shipping on your first order by using the code CROOKED at checkout, again, buycondoms dot online and enter in CROOKED–

LOVETT: Crooked Media! For when you’re trying to have fun on a budget.

FAVS [breathless]: _End of ad._

LOVETT: End. Of. Ad.


	7. WINC (jonjon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > LOVETT: I'm trying to tell you something, Jon.  
> FAVS: Please, go ahead.  
> LOVETT: WINC sent a bunch of wine to our office, and, uh, this afternoon — there may be, uh, rosé o’clock at like 4:30.  
> FAVS: Is it Thursday?  
> LOVETT: It is Thursday.  
> FAVS [laughing]: Okay, yikes.
> 
> — Pod Save America, 2017/08/10

They’ve sent Tanya and the interns home, and Tommy ducked out early for dinner with a college friend, so it’s just Jon and Lovett left to wrap things up at the office.

Well. They finished wrapping things up, so now they’re just sprawled side by side on the sofa, working their way through a bottle of rosé.

“You know what,” Lovett says, idly scrolling through Twitter, “I don’t appreciate these attacks on my character you guys air on these Thursday pods, they’re wildly unjustified.”

“ _Have_ you listened to the pod?” Jon asks, and holds out his mug for Lovett to top up again. “Or did someone just tweet at you to say that Dan was being mean to you?”

“Actually, I hear Dan’s doing his homework.” Lovett pointedly does not pour Jon more wine. He’s abandoned his cup a while back, Jon notes. Instead, he’s looking straight at Jon when he brings the bottle up to his mouth and takes a long, slow drink. It feels like Jon’s staring at the movement of his throat for an hour. “And no, of course I haven’t, I’m a busy guy. San Francisco tomorrow. Really building the media empire here.”

“So what you mean is that we said things that are true, they just hurt your feelings.” Jon gestures at the bottle. The rim’s still wet where Lovett’s mouth had been. “C’mon, hand it over.”

“Nope,” Lovett pronounces with satisfaction. “I am being slandered, I won’t stand for it, and you don’t deserve to get drunk on this wine, which WINC sent to this  _company_ , a symbol of friendship and affection that I have  _not_  been feeling lately, I gotta say–”

“Lovett,” Jon says, laughing a little, “it’s like a fifteen dollar bottle of wine, it is not some terrible symbol of betrayal–”

“Isn’t it,” Lovett says, “you sound dismissive, but maybe you’re just trying to assuage the guilt stemming from your own behavior–”

“Hey, Lovett–”

“–I’m just saying, what have I done to deserve getting bullied by my own coworkers, in whom my trust was  _clearly_  misplaced–”

“ _Lovett_.”

“–nothing, I’ve done  _nothing_ – what?”

“Shut up,” Jon says, and reaches for the wine.

It takes a minute, but Lovett’s unprepared and Jon’s still taller than he is; he braces a hand on Lovett’s shoulder, clambers over his knees, and when they stop moving Lovett’s pinned nearly flat across the cushions, Jon straddling his thighs.

“See,” he says, and takes the bottle from Lovett’s hand. “That was easy.”

“Wasn’t it,” Lovett says. He has to tilt his face to look up at Jon, and even though he sounds breathless there’s something faintly satisfied there, too. “Got me right where you want.”

“I do,” Jon says slowly. He’s looking at Lovett’s mouth again: his lips parted open, a flash of teeth. Lovett’s very solid underneath him, from the length of his thighs to the square of his shoulders, and his eyes are dark.

Lovett very deliberately, showily licks his lips.

Jon sets the wine down on the side table with a thunk. “We can save that for Tommy,” he says.

“Oh, can we?”

“We  _are_ ,” Jon corrects. He’s not drunk, exactly, but the way Lovett’s looking at him makes him feel reckless all the same. “And then maybe we’ll find out what else you can do with your mouth besides talking.”

“A lot of things,” Lovett says, grinning, “I’m a multi-talented guy,” but when Jon presses a thumb to the bottom curve of his lip, Lovett lets it slide into his mouth, his tongue curling lazily around it, hot and wet.

“Okay,” Jon says, a little hoarse, and the warmth low in his belly has nothing to do with the wine. “Right. That’s a start.”


End file.
